icon caret-left icon caret-right instagram pinterest linkedin facebook twitter goodreads question-circle facebook circle twitter circle linkedin circle instagram circle goodreads circle pinterest circle

The Pipe

The Pipe

By Anna Marie Garcia

Henrietta pressed the smooth wooden bowl of Father’s pipe into her skin, slowly alternating both palms, as part of her evening telly watching ritual. Unconcerned with the dust blanketing the overstuffed armchair, and her life in general, she looked out the window. Queen E, her one eared rescue cat, prowled the bushes across the lane. The cat refused to return home for fear of being boxed inside again. No different than Henrietta’s husband.


On this night, she examined the pipe as never before. Placed on her flat outstretched left hand, she turned it over with her right. A small crack ran through the mouthpiece. No scent of tobacco remained. Probably a good many years since it was last smoked. A rather ordinary pipe for a high-ranking officer. A man whose duty to country was far stronger than his interest in his family.


The following day, she ventured into town, silently noting the changes. How long had it been? The tobacco shop remained where she remembered, tucked into the corner of a two-story stone building in the old square. Sweet smells of mingled tobacco flavors engulfed her senses as she entered.


“Is it possible to replace the neck on this pipe?” Henrietta inquired as she set it on the carved oak counter.


“I can, yes, but wouldn’t you fancy a new pipe? I can offer you one of a higher quality.”


“No.” Henrietta quickly interjected. “This was my father’s, Admiral Winston’s, and I wish to smoke it.”


“Oh yes, of course, I see. Right away,” he said as he started a work order. “Wait. Did you say Admiral Winston’s? Admiral Bartholomew Winston of the British Royal Navy?”


“Well, yes, but you’re much too young to have known him.”


Crimson rushed to the cheeks of the shop-keep’s otherwise pale face. “Recently, on her d-deathbed,” he stammered. “My grandmother confessed that my deceased father wasn’t my grandfather’s legitimate son. He was instead the product of a wartime tryst, a torrid affair actually, and I am the grandson of the late Bartholomew Winston. She said I am his image.”


“Oh my,” Henrietta pondered, her eyes fixated first on the pipe and then on the young man. “I suppose that is a possibility. That means I still have family. It would make you . . . my nephew.”


Astounded, she turned her focus to the jars of tobacco on the shelf, gingerly opening each one, smelling the contents and closing the lid. Turning back, she looked him over again as he watched her.


“Is there a family discount for the repair and the tobacco?”


* * * * *

 

 

Saving My Small World: Published in the "2024 Central Writer's Guild 2024 Literary Collection"

 

Abuela: Published in the 2023 San Francisco Writer's Contest Anthology: "What We've Believed"